


HATESEX

by deltachye



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M, Lemon, One Shot, Reader-Insert, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 07:24:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11641764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltachye/pseuds/deltachye
Summary: [reader x yuuji terushima]The things that are the worst for you always taste the best.





	HATESEX

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Unconditional Surrender](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8881336) by [deltachye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltachye/pseuds/deltachye). 



* * *

 

“I _fucking_ hate your guts, Terushima!”

He licked his lips as you yelled, dark eyes honeying your body sweetly and thickly even as you stood there fuming.

“I would too,” he drawled, “my guts are hardly the cutest part of me.”

“I’m fucking serious,” you spat, raising a warning finger in his direction. “You are the _worst_ motherfucking asshole I’ve ever had the misfortune of crossing paths with. We’re over.”

“You said that the last three times,” he simpered, raising long fingers to show the number on his hands. He kept stepping forwards. You felt your face burn as your back hit the cold wall. His breath was hot against your lips, and you tasted watermelon flavoured gum on the sweet air.

“And yet, you’re back.”

“That’s because we don’t _work_ together,” you growled. Your hairs rose on your neck, tingling as his eyes caught yours.

“I don’t give a shit whether or not we cuddle up and say ‘I love you’ to each other after sex. We both know that we ain’t a good couple together. But I _do_ know that fucking me is a healthier form of catharsis than you doin’ nothing but yelling at me, so we should be fucking. Am I right?”

“And if I say no?” you spat. He frowned for a second, thinking.

“…well, then I’d back off. I’m not a monster.”

“Huh. For a second, you sounded like a good guy. Instead of a cheating, no-good, fucking—”

He cut you off by smashing his lips to yours. They were chapped like razor blades, cutting into your soft flesh mercilessly. You tasted the bitter iron of blood as he bit you, his tongue lapping you up greedily as the pearly ball of metal in his mouth warmed to your own. You let out an instinctive moan before remembering yourself, pushing him away with both hands. Your fingers clutched the fabric of his black shirt as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, your red lipstick smeared across his jaw.

“What’s it going to be?” he said between heavy breaths as you stood, gasping for air to restore your vision. His eyes burned deeply with avarice.

“Hate sex, or no?”

“This is why I hate you,” you reminded lowly, but you pulled him right back to you without a beat of hesitation. You knew you should’ve turned right around and marched out of the place like a woman that had some shred of pride and dignity. But this was your problem—you liked things that were bad for you. You sat around on the couch and shoved chips in your face, just like you might shove his dick into your mouth—because you liked things that were bad for you.

Doesn’t mean that they don’t taste good in the moment, even if you regret it later.

His taut muscles were hard against your body, pinning you into the wall. Without once breaking the dirty kiss, he slipped large hands under your knees, pulling you up onto him. Your heart raced as he kissed you red and raw, stealing each breath away with shameless greed. Your fingers gripped the collar of his shirt, tugging at him needily. Everything felt like it was pulsating desperately, begging for release. Arousal built up deep in your gut as he touched you in ways that you didn’t know you needed to be touched in. He was a key to a chained-up lock and _fuck_ , did you need to be blown open.

Fueled by your frustration of constantly letting the bad guy have his way, you pushed him, gulping down a breath of air that you’d be losing soon. Your feet hit the ground and you pushed him again, once more by the broad shoulders, moving into the darkness of the bedroom you had used to call home. It wasn’t so much as ‘home’ as it was a cave of guilty refuge, now, but the bedsheets were still soft.

You collapsed onto him, pulling as you did. His shirt came off easily. Miscellaneous tattoos marred his skin like snakes, glistening with sweat in the dark lighting. He noticed you noticing and grinned, his teeth looking even sharper in the shadows.

“Like what you see?”

“Fuck off,” you muttered, dipping low to return your lips to his skin. You bit down as hard as you could on a section of his neck, lapping up the salty taste of his body. His hand slipped behind your head, curling into your hair. You felt his grip pull on each follicle, creating a dull and toe-curling pain that just turned you on even more. You had time to leave another selfish mark on his collarbone before he flipped you down, the air knocked out of your lungs as you landed harshly on your cold back. He was already clawing at your shirt.

“You’re still hot,” he murmured with a stupidly delighted grin, his fingers dancing along the curve of your waist after he’d torn your clothes off. His thumb dipped into your belly button, rough skin giving you shivers. His nails dug into your hip dangerously.

“I know I am,” you replied disgustedly, not needing his stupid fuckboy mouth to tell you what you already knew. He rose and kicked off his joggers—you did the same with your shorts, unbuttoning and removing them as cleanly as a surgical manoeuver. He was already back on you before you could get them off your ankles, the prickly hair of his legs like sandpaper against your softer ones. His knee drove into the middle of your legs, hard, grinding against you. You bit onto the tip of your tongue, your muscles tensing in anticipation.

A hand slid up behind your back and unclipped your bra. The tension from your breasts released and he tossed the piece of underwear behind him uncaringly. You supposed that was what he’d done to your stupid heart so many years ago. It was trash that he didn’t need.

Whatever. Even if he was a shitty person, he knew how to give a good dicking.

You could feel his ravenous smile on the swell of your breasts as he bit into them, leaving red bruises criss-crossing the sensitive skin like scattered petals. You couldn’t stop yourself from letting out a sharp gasp as he rolled your right nipple between his upper and lower teeth, the other receiving the same from his fingers. You squirmed underneath him, arms quivering as you reached out to grab onto something for dear life. Your fingers wound in product-laden hair. Your legs wrapped up around his body in a vice grip. You never wanted to hand him victory so easily, but desire was writhing inside of you, a fiery gluttonous demon. You whimpered his name. Softly at first, and then you cried it, desperately asking for something you didn’t know. Your fingers dug deeper into his hair.

His grin was a hot tattoo on your skin.

He wasn’t one for foreplay. That was fine, because neither were you. Neither of you really liked each other past your bodies, and didn’t care for pleasantries at this point in time. During the relationships that had been tried and true over and over to suck completely, you had lied to yourself. But it just couldn’t be helped that the both of you were so incompatible for each other. Still, if there was one thing that was good about him, it was that he didn’t dance around things. He put his cock in the hole and played to win. That was all you needed and wanted from him.

Rainbow coloured condoms littered the inside of his bedside drawer like candies, and you didn’t bother to think about how many other ladies had rummaged through his treat bowl. You just thought about how much you _despised_ him. How much you wanted to step on him; win over him; break him down.

You ripped the plastic with your teeth and rolled the rubber down his dick in a fluid motion. He lay under you, arms crossed behind his head expectantly like the self-absorbed douchebag he was. Your dark nail polish looked black as your fingers curled around his member. He didn’t have a second to say something smart before your mouth was on him, engulfing his dick whole like a shark snapping up its dinner.

“Whore,” he muttered, amused, a deep husky tone grinding up each syllable.

“Slut,” you replied, unfazed. The ‘t’ was emphasized by your tongue, flicking out to his tip, dragging a thin, sweet line across. You supposed you would’ve had more power over him if you sucked him off before putting the barrier condom on, but you wanted to play it safe. You didn’t know how many other bitches he was fucking, and you didn’t really care anymore. Caring was left for the past.

You just wanted to be the one to fucking destroy him.

Your right handled the shaft as the left cradled his precious balls. It’d be so easy to ruin him, but you liked to play the long game. You won wars, not battles. You kneaded him, ran the length of him, let your spit slobber all over him—you knew what it took to get him to lose to you.

He was stubborn. His hand was propped upon the crown of your head lazily, and he was silent, but you felt his fingers twitch ever so slightly in your hair. The latex made his dick especially smooth in your mouth, irresistible, like an exotic dark chocolate truffle. Your lips pressed together with just the right amount of pressure. His skin was unbearably hot. You wanted to torment him in this game. You wanted to be _that_ bitch. And you wanted fruit.

Finally, he let out a jittery groan that had some semblance to your name. His leg muscles flexed tensely and he pushed you away, gasping hard. You viciously grinned with delight and victory, your teeth grazing against him. You were drenched both up and down. The smell of sex was already pungent in the air.

“Give up?” you asked coquettishly.

“Fuck off.”

His hand was large, strong, and forced you down easily, leaving scratches on your waist. His erection stuck to the inside of your leg, tantalizingly close to where you wanted it to be. Your hips rose into his without your volition, begging him. Your heart raced with suspense. His hands closed around your wrists, slamming them up above your head and pinning you down into the mattress.

“Say ‘please’?”

Your glare was enough of an answer. He snorted out an unpleasant laugh, but obliged with the ‘hurry up’ in your eyes, ducking his head down into your nape just as he entered you. Your breath stuttered in your throat, eyes rolling back up to the ceiling as he stretched you out. You ground your teeth together as he let go, steadying himself by caging you in and placing both hands down on either side of you. Quickly, you grabbed onto his shoulders. Your slick, hot walls expanded easily to his sizable length and you felt every bit of him inside of you.

“Thought you’d be looser by now,” he teased breathily, the words burning onto your chest.

“Maybe you just didn’t do a good enough job,” you hissed. He stuck his tongue out playfully. You dug your sharp nails into his skin, reminding him of his damn job.

The first few strokes were to test the waters, but already, you could feel it. Your breath came in short gasps, your face screwed up as you buried it into his chest. Your hand shot down and you pressed it to your clit. You knew he wasn’t going to help you out in this—you were just tagging along for the ride as he fucked you for himself. But even though he didn’t even seem to be focused on you in the slightest, you’d never had anybody make you come half as hard as Terushima could.

You refused to say his name. But swears of different kinds tumbled out of your mouth, beat by beat, like some sort of bad 2000s rock anthem sung by sweaty teenagers. _Fuck_ , did he know how to do you, and fuck, did you hate that.

You came once, twice, thrice—explosive, spine shattering orgasms that made your eyes light up with stars. You thought you saw him smile as you convulsed under his rough hands, but many things are left to imagination. Love is just a neurochemical con job. Sex, however—at least it really does feel good. Even when you fucking _hate_ the guy you’re fucking.

His rhythm became irregular and you heard him take in a sharp gasp. Your back arched up to high heaven in a final silent climax. His body tensed under your fingernails, tight, as his arms trembled with strain. You peeked at his face. His eyelashes, long and dark, fluttered peacefully as he exhaled slowly. If you hadn’t known him, you might’ve said ‘I love you’ at this moment.

“Done yet?” you asked, albeit with a bit of softness. He was right. Relief and exhaustion rushed over you like a sweet, delicious blanket, and all the anger from before had melted away. You didn’t forgive him, nor did you remotely even _like_ him, but at least you didn’t want to tear his eyes out anymore.

He blew a raspberry at you and pulled out neatly. You watched his back as he cleaned up, throwing the condom out and pulling on his boxers. You huffed a snarky laugh.

“Maybe you should rile me up more often,” you said jokingly, propping your head up on a hand. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Are you kidding? You already hate me, babe.”

It was true. And maybe someday, you’d be back again, another argument in your mouth that he’d lap up with that delicately glazed tongue.

You were kind of a bad person for hoping on it.

**Author's Note:**

> Read this elsewhere: https://goo.gl/i3CKtk


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